A Mutual Doctor
by hmmga
Summary: Sherlock travelled with the fourth doctor, and it changed his life. After eight years back on earth, he begins to meet other old companions. Can this finally give him closure? Rated T to be safe
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all,**

**I am taking a short break from my usual line of Sherlock in Potterverse to allow me time to write the next one, and have decided to write some drabbles of Sherlock in the Whoverse. They will involve Sherlock meeting various companions of the Doctor.**

**I DON'T OWN ANYTHING.**

**First Contact**

The press room was too full for comfort, crammed with journalists from every paper under the sun, all trying to scoop the headline that the great Sherlock Holmes was_ alive_. John cowered in the corner as the photographers did their stuff. Every so often, people would crane their heads around to stare at him, the bloke who had believed the lie. John had never felt stupider.

At last it was nearly over, but the journalists had hundreds of questions. Questions about his fall, his survival, his travels in the last three years. One woman was remarkably persistent, her constant cries of 'Mr Holmes' drowning out the others. John thought she was incredibly annoying, but Sherlock kept frowning at her with a curious expression, like she was someone he just couldn't place.

"Last questions now!" called Lestrade. Sherlock gave another placating answer to another tedious question, not paying much attention to what he was saying. Then his face lit up with realisation.

"Of course," he cried. "Sarah Jane Smith!"

The brunette looked confused.

"Have we met?"

"Not in person, but I would like a word. Outside?"

She nodded, as the journalists started to leave, buzzing about deadlines and scoops and other nonsense. John followed Sherlock out the building, puzzled. How did he know this woman?"

On the street outside Scotland Yard they found the woman waiting with a blonde girl.

"You wanted to talk?"

"Yes…" Sherlock seemed unsure of how to proceed. "I'm sorry, I don't think I properly introduced myself, I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, I know."

"I saw your photograph every day for three years, I took your room, I hope you don't mind. I joined not long after you left, your replacement, if you like."

"What room?"

"I believe we have a mutual doctor."

John was once more clueless. He had never met this Sarah woman. The journalist's eyes, however, had lit up. Soon they were engaged in a swift conversation that John couldn't understand.

"You travelled with the doctor?"

"Yeah, it was about a decade ago now."

"What did he look like?"

"Brown curly hair, dopey grin, funny hat…" he thought a moment. "_Really_ long stripy scarf."

"But that's the same doctor I travelled with!"

"I know. I expect he's regenerated since."

"Yes, half a dozen times. Last I saw him he wore a tweed jacket and a bow-tie."

"Sounds like him. You saw him again?"

"Yes, I still do occasionally. This is my daughter, Sky."

"A fleshkind?" asked Sherlock, intrigued.

"What?" said the girl sharply, brown eyes scouring them. "How did you guess?"

"I never guess."

"Do you want to come back to mine? We could have tea."

"Yes, I'd like that," said Sherlock. He turned to John. "You'll be alright getting home, won't you? Do you need some cab money?"

"I'm sure Dr Watson can come too."

"No," said Sherlock firmly. "I'm sorry, John, but there's too much to explain, I'll tell you about it tonight."

John nodded, defeated already. He was too tired to argue.

"It's okay," he yawned. "I gotta go anyway, get some sleep…"

Sherlock handed him some cash and he wandered off down the street.

XXX

John sat in his armchair, struggling to comprehend what Sherlock had told him. His ears thought that Sherlock had muttered something about space travel and time travel and an alien called the Doctor, but his brain was protesting that it just wasn't possible. At first he had intended to write it off as one of his wild tales, but somehow Sarah Jane Smith had become an integral part in their lives. She turned up at least once a week, sometimes with her daughter to discuss what Sherlock called 'the good old days'. Sometimes she reported their cases in the newspapers. Sometimes she called Sherlock for help with cases of her own.

She had powerful friends. Sherlock talked of an organisation called UNIT, and Miss Smith would talk of her involvement, and told stories of how it began. She talked of a 'brigadier', and was amazed when Sherlock was familiar with him, but was then forced to reveal that he had died recently. When she said that, Sherlock… he looked so crushed. John hadn't seen such a display of emotion since Irene Adler had faked her death.

He was worried, but Miss Smith was a good influence. Sherlock became calmer, and he rarely complained of boredom. He started to eat more regularly, and slept better. John was pushed a little to the side-lines, but he had begun to move on in the three years that Sherlock was 'dead', and had no intentions of stopping. He had a new job, his own flat, and Mary, his first truly steady girlfriend. He still worried about Sherlock, but not so much.

Then he met Miss Smith's son, and was immediately terrified. There was a possibility that he was even smarter than Sherlock. Sherlock of course, denied this, claiming that they were equally matched.

John just looked on smugly as the scrabble score became 62-0.

Luke Smith was very good for Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Btw, I am open for prompts/ideas. Can't promise to use them all, but please send them all the same.**

**Second Thoughts**

"So, remind me why we're here?"

John was annoyed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the young Indian girl. Rani, he had been told.

"We're here," he said, "because Sarah's computer has been picking up some odd energy traces in the area, but she had already promised to help at Sky's school science fair…"

"Sarah-Jane," corrected Rani. "Cheer up, John, I thought you liked investigations!"

John mumbled something incoherent about dead humans being so much easier to work with, but kept walking through the sleepy village.

"Where are we, anyway?"

"Ledworth!" said Sherlock with mock enthusiasm. "Mystery alien town of the month! Sarah knows all the best places."

"She doesn't like being called Sarah," Rani said again. Sherlock shrugged.

"It's what the Doctor called her. Old habits die hard."

"How long did you travel with him?"

"About three years," his face darkened momentarily. "It took me the same length of time to sort my life out after the mess he left me in."

"What do you mean?"

"Ask Sarah," he mumbled. "Sometimes you start running, and it's impossible to stop."

They stopped outside a local church to get their bearings, Sherlock tapping away on a little portable computer that Sarah-Jane had leant them.

"The graveyard," he announced. "Why did we have to come during the daytime?"

"Hmm," said Rani. "Graveyards are much more fun at night time."

"Oh well, here goes nothing," said John sadly. The sooner they got back to London, the better.

The graveyard was almost deserted; the only other people there were a young couple, crouching among the headstones. Sherlock caught the flash of wedding rings on their fingers, but apart from that nothing about them added up. They obviously weren't grieving; they seemed to be studying something on the ground…

He checked the laptop again. Whatever they were looking for, those two had found it first. He approached them, motioning to the others to follow him surreptitiously.

"Seems we're not the only ones alien hunting," he said in a loud voice. The pair jumped and whirled around.

"What are you doing here?" asked the woman. She had long red hair, a Scottish accent, and barely any skirt. John was probably already eyeing her up.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, holding out his hand. "I see you are code-nine associates."

"What?" asked the man. Sherlock sighed.

"Great," he muttered. "Newbies. You travelled with the Doctor, I know the signs. Welcome to the club."

Their expressions cleared.

"I'm Rory," said the man, "and this is my wife, Amy,"

Sherlock could almost hear John's disappointment.

"What have we got?"

"I'm not sure."

He studied the small rock, running a hand over its surface.

"It's an escape pod, from the Nostrovitian Cluster."

"Come again?" said Rory.

"It's dead," announced Sherlock. "It was badly burned in the descent, lost all power. Any life forms would have been killed instantly. Here…" he tossed it to the red-head. "Put it in your collection."

The girl looked as if she was about to cry.

"Sherlock…" sighed John.

"Oh not the _caring_ speech again," he moaned. "They're dead, what is there left to care _about_? In a minute you'll be expecting me to care that their daughter is currently running around the universe killing people and causing general misery-"

Sherlock broke off as Amy slapped him across his face and he went reeling backwards. He raised his eyebrows towards Rory.

"She's _good_," he said. "Is she that rough with the other men? What's wrong, Rory, don't approve of your wife's career choice?"

Amy stepped forwards to slap him again, but this time Rory got there first.

It took half an hour for John and Rani to calm them down enough for them to have a civil conversation. Then they all went to a local café for tea, and to talk about the 'good old days'.

Again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Third Time's the Charm**

Captain Jack Harkness was having a bad day.

He'd been dragged to London in an attempt to capture _yet another_ giant puffer fish, and it had just shot him through the forehead. Not that it was unusual for him, but as he died he noted that he was just outside a city hospital, and concerned paramedics were already rushing out.

Well that was just great.

Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, was having a fantastic day. He had solved a case, insulted both Anderson _and_ Donovan, dissected five frogs, and beaten three corpses with his riding crop.

And it wasn't even lunchtime yet.

All of a sudden, Molly strode back into the morgue, pushing a trolley in front of her.

"Got a treat for you!" she called. "He's barely been dead five minutes, knock yourself out!"

Sherlock pretty much pounced. "Excellent! Let's see, bullet through the forehead. His coat is vintage, which suggests… hold on, it's original. But that doesn't make sense."

He frowned for a few moments, and then the man on the slab gasped and thrashed around. It was a deep, painful breath, and Sherlock knew it was the sound of someone returning from death. Molly screamed.

"He was dead!"

"Good morning," said the man. He was American. "I'm Captain Jack Harkness, I don't suppose either of you have seen a giant fish? It's probably driving a sports car."

"Captain Jack…" murmured Sherlock. "Of course! Sarah told me all about you and Torchwood!"

"Sarah? Miss Smith?"

"That's right. Giant fish, you say? Do you want a hand? I could do with a good chase. I'm Sherlock Holmes by the way, a fellow code-nine associate."

"Code-nine…" Jack grinned. "Nice to meet you, Sherlock." He leapt up to take his hand. "Has anyone told you that you're gorgeous?"

"Um…" Sherlock didn't quite know how to react. Molly looked on, raising her eyes at the sight of a speechless Sherlock. Jack however, made any further speech unnecessary when he pulled out another gun, and handed it to him.

"Follow me, it shouldn't be that hard to find. It has expensive tastes, so we just follow the trail of destruction!"

The two men flew out of the hospital building, Sherlock fiddling with his phone.

"There's talk of a disturbance on Oxford Street!"

"That sounds about right!"

Sherlock grabbed Jack's hand again to pull him out of the way of a car. The older man seemed reluctant to let go, so they ran hand in hand through London.

"It's on the move!" Sherlock cried. "It – holy crap, it's heading towards Scotland Yard! Come this way, we can head it off!"

Sherlock dragged Jack through a few backstreets, and arrived at the Yard to find… a Mazda mx5 crashed into the iconic sign, and a few broken windows indicating that the alien had gone inside.

"Come on!"

They ran, guns raised into the building, and soon caught sight of it running into a conference room. Sherlock and Jack darted inside, and shot it simultaneously. The fish fell down dead.

"Ah," said Jack, as it fell down to reveal a room full of people.

"Not good," said Sherlock. "Hello John, Lestrade. We'll just…"

He exhaled sharply, but then crumpled over in the middle, creasing up with laughter. Jack did the same, and soon they were leaning up against each other for support. They laughed until they had no breath left in their lungs, and slid slowly down a wall. Their hands were still entwined.

After a moment they started breathing again, and Jack leaned forwards to give Sherlock a deep, passionate kiss, in front of the whole of Scotland Yard.

He considered protesting, but decided that it wasn't worth it, it made an interesting experiment.

Besides, Donovan's face was a picture.


	4. Chapter 4

**SniperKingSogeking0341 I LOVE YOU!**

**Be warned, it's about to get a bit angsty. Also a bit OOC, but I can put that down to shock.**

**Four O'Clock**

It was four o'clock on the dot, and Sherlock was in his 'supremely smug' mode. He had just caught _yet another_ triple murderer, and obviously thought that it merited a special occasion when it came to gloating. And this time, it wasn't restricted to the usual parties. In other words, this meant that unsuspecting officers who were unused to Sherlock were bearing the brunt of his glee, and struggling. He had just been through more evidence with Lestrade when his phone rang, and he pulled it swiftly out of his pocket, and frowned at the caller ID before answering.

"Sky?"

There was a short silence, and then Sherlock spoke again.

"Sky, what is it, what's happened? Sky, speak to me."

Quiet, inaudible words down the line, and then.

"No," croaked Sherlock, the colour draining from his face. "No!"

He staggered, and Lestrade caught him, guiding him to a chair. John darted forwards, and grabbed the phone.

"Sky?"

A sobbing, stuttering voice answered.

"M-mum's d-dead."

"Where are you?"

"St B-Bart's."

"Okay, we'll be there as soon as we can."

He hung up, and tossed the phone to one side, kneeling beside Sherlock.

"Shit," he swore loudly. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

Sherlock took a deep breath, obviously attempting to calm himself. It didn't work, and he threw up all over Lestrade. It was his turn to swear.

"Sherlock?" asked John, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder.

There was no answer. Sherlock was white as a sheet, breathing heavily. John made to pull away.

"No."

Sherlock was clutching his shirt.

"Please don't go. Please."

John let Sherlock bury his face in his chest, feeling a little self-conscious. The room was almost empty now, only the few people who worked with Sherlock regularly stayed, watching with something like amazement as the detective broke down in tears. Even Lestrade stood there frozen, still covered in Sherlock's sick. None of them had ever seen Sherlock cry before.

"John what…"

"Someone's died," John said. "A good friend. Look, all of you just go. This really doesn't need an audience."

Lestrade nodded, and motioned for the others to leave. They did so reluctantly. John could have sworn he saw a flash of pity cross Sally Donovan's face. He wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock.

"We have to go to the hospital," he told him. "Sky needs us, Sherlock."

Sarah-Jane Smith had been very good for Sherlock.

God knows what would happen to him now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry it's been a little while. I had a bit of a writer's block, but now I am back in full force!**

**Five UNITs**

When John came downstairs on the morning of the funeral the first thing he noticed was the small girl on the sofa.

This in itself was no longer unusual; Sherlock had been looking after Sky and Luke for the last few days, and Sky had become quite attached to the sofa. What _was_ strange was that Sherlock appeared to have fallen asleep with her last night, and they were now curled together looking unbelievably like father and daughter. Being careful not to wake them, John crept into the kitchen, where Luke was already sitting beside a cooling cup of tea.

"Morning," he whispered, but the boy didn't respond. He just kept staring ahead. Since he'd arrived on the train from Oxford, John hadn't heard him speak at all. He bustled around making enough toast for all of them.

"John," said Luke quietly. "Is this grief?"

John turned to stare at the boy. Those words were more suited to Sherlock.

"What?"

"What I'm feeling. Is this grief or sadness?"

"You mean you don't know?"

"I've felt sadness before," the boy continued. "Whenever there was someone we couldn't save, or I argued with the others, or when Maria moved to America… but this is different. It feels stronger. Like there's a hole in my life. What does it mean?"

"It's grief," said John. "How can you not know?"

"Emotions are tricky," admitted Luke. "They don't come naturally to me. When I was born, mum was the second person I met, after Maria."

The silence seemed to tell Luke something.

"Oh, Sherlock hasn't told you about me? You know that I was adopted, right?"

"Yes."

"Did they mention that I was an archetype, grown by aliens with the intention of taking over the world with fizzy drinks?"

"N-no," John stuttered. Luke looked up at him, a small sparkle in his eyes. Then in the next moment it was gone.

XXX

About two hours later it was time to leave, and by two o'clock that afternoon it was finished. Sherlock hadn't been paying much attention to anybody but Luke and Sky, and after the ceremony was finished, he looked around, blinking slightly as he came back to reality.

It wasn't a big funeral. There was Luke and Sky, as well as Clyde, Rani and their parents. Maria and her dad had flown over from America. John and Mycroft had insisted on attending and there were people that Sherlock guessed lived on Bannerman road but the others…

He nodded to Jack, who was stony faced. But beside him was an old man who Sherlock felt was very familiar. As he approached, he gasped.

"Sergeant Benton?"

The man's head jerked up, and he turned white as a sheet.

"Jesus Christ," he choked. "Sherlock Holmes? But – how – you look… blimey you haven't changed a bit."

Jack was looking between the two, evidently confused. Benton was turning around.

"Mike! Jo! Look who's here!"

"Mr Holmes?"

"Mr Yates," said Sherlock in amazement. "You look well. And you must be Miss Grant. I don't think we ever actually met."

"It's Miss Jones now," she said. "I heard all about you, the boys even sent me a photograph."

"Really?" he asked wistfully. He knew there was a photograph, but had never seen it.

"Oh yes. I'll make a copy and send it to you."

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"This isn't fair," growled Mike. "Why don't you look any older? The last time I saw you was forty years ago!"

"Time-machine," Sherlock reminded him.

"Bit obvious, surely Mike," grinned Benton, and they all exchanged smiles.

XXX

At the edge of the graveyard, John could see that Mycroft was growing concerned.

"Who are those people Sherlock is talking to?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted, as Jack dragged a dark-skinned man over to meet Sherlock. "But they all seem to know each other."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes as a man in a sailor's uniform joined the group.

"That man is Harry Sullivan, he used to be the doctor for the NATO special ops in Porton Down. And those three, their conduct is screaming 'secret organisation retirees'."

"Really? Which one?"

"That's what's worrying me," sighed Mycroft. "I don't know. How can I possibly not know? And that one-" he pointed to Jack, who was apparently in his element with all the men in uniform. "I can't deduce anything at all."

John whirled around.

"What?"

"I see _nothing_," whined Mycroft. "What connection does my brother have to _them_? The affect they're having on him…"

Sherlock came running over.

"John! Can you take Sky and Luke back to the flat please?"

"Where are you going?"

"Pub, probably. Got a lot of catching up to do with the boys. May be late home."

"_You're going to a pub?_"

"Problem?"

"Um, no of course not. Have a good time."

"Look after the kids!" Sherlock instructed, and then ran back over to the group.

There was a moment's silence.

"Yes, Mycroft I can see what you mean. That really is some affect."


	6. Chapter 6

**Sixth Sense**

"Did we _have_ to do this at night?" John grumbled as they approached the little country church.

"It's a ghost-hunt, John!" whispered Sherlock. "Of course we do!"

"You always say ghosts don't exist. I can't believe I forfeited a night out for _this_."

"Jane isn't your type."

"Her _name_ is Mary, and we've been seeing each other for six months."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

John sighed, "I still don't see why we had to come all the way to Scotland."

"Because that's where the ghosts are," said Sherlock impatiently.

"Hang on," said John, coming to a halt. "Looks like we're not the only ones."

A little ahead of them, a torch was shining.

"Oh, not again," moaned Sherlock. "Hey, you two!"

The older couple turned, towards the light from their torch. Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

"Ah," he said nervously. "Okay… right." He laughed nervously, approaching the couple. "Wow, that's just… okay…"

John looked at Sherlock, surprised. It took a lot to make him nervous. Suddenly Sherlock held out a hand.

"Ben and Polly, I presume?"

"Ay-up, we've got company," said Ben.

"Ben!" chastised Polly. "Nice to meet you, um…"

"Sherlock Holmes, code-nine associate."

"Oh!" they exclaimed together. Ben looked to John.

"Is 'e one too?"

"No. This is Doctor John Watson."

"Nice to meet you mate. You ghost 'unting as well?"

John nodded. Another evening out of the loop appeared to be on the cards.

"You don't really need me I expect."

"Naw, don't worry, more the merrier!" said the man cheerfully. "You got that look on yer face, the one Jamie always 'ad when he didn't understand what were goin' on. 'e learned soon enough."

"Anyway, enough chat," said Polly firmly. "We should talk over food later, but for now, let's find these ghosts."

They nodded in affirmation, but when they reached the little gate into the graveyard, they found their path blocked. It was a young girl, with dark hair, and deep brown eyes. She studied the little group carefully.

"Aye, I knew some of your ilk would turn up soon enough," she said in a rough Scottish brogue. "Seekin' out the wee ghosties are ye?"

"How do you…"

"Ah, ye gets all sorts 'round here, all of them looking for ghosts."

"That's a lie," said Sherlock. "I bet no one's come searching before us."

There was a moment's stony silence, then the girl's face split into a grin.

"I know who you are now. I'm Heather, and you're Sherlock Holmes, aye? I heard ye were guid. Well, not guid enough, apparently. You see, there ain't no ghosties here, just the rift."

"The rift?"

"Aye. The torchwood rift don't stop at Cardiff, runs alla way up the country. Cardiff's jest one o' its active spots. The other is right here."

"Hah!" said Polly. "I knew there would be an explanation!"

"So no ghosts then," said Sherlock. He sounded more than a little disappointed. The girl flicked another smile at them. She was odd, it was like she could see right into their minds.

"Och, very guid Sherlock!" she cried. "We McCrimmon's have a sixth sense, you see, courtesy of the rift. We can hear everything you're thinking."

"We?"

"Well.. it's jest me now, really. All my brother's moved away, so lost the ability."

"Wai' a minute," piped up Ben. "Did you say McCrimmon?"

"Aye."

"As in Jamie McCrimmon?"

"Aye, that's the one. He's my ancestor. Ye knew him?"

"Yeah. Long time ago. 'e was okay then, he got 'ome alright."

"Do you wanna see him?"

"I… sorry?"

She indicated for them to follow, and led them through the little graveyard.

"There 'e is."

Sherlock examined the grave.

_James Robert McCrimmon_

There was no date of death, or any other words. Instead there was a picture carved into the stone.

"The TARDIS," breathed Sherlock.

They stood around for about ten more minutes. Ben and Polly had tears in their eyes as they examined the grave. Afterwards, Heather McCrimmon accompanied them to the nearest town for tea.

**Going to do a UNIT 'Sherlock has more power than Mycroft' chapter next, but I need a good classic DW alien to invade. At the moment I'm thinking Sontarans, but does anybody have a better idea?**

**I am also open to any other requests.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Apologies to SeaAndSky, I don't know a lot about the Axons, and the Cybermen are a bit too clique for me. I have, however chosen another 'classic' monster that more traditional Whovians will be familiar with.**

**Please review and tell me what you think, I haven't had a lot of feedback for this story.**

**Seventh Rule**

Mycroft had long since decided that Sherlock had got out of the wrong side of bed. That is, if he went to bed at all. Knowing Sherlock, it was unlikely. Mycroft surveyed him as he poured over the photographs, obsessed that something was wrong with the evidence. Mycroft knew that there _was_ something off about the whole case, but couldn't understand Sherlock's drive to solve it.

"Argh!" roared Sherlock suddenly, sweeping everything off the desk. Across the room John sighed. Sherlock strode to the door to grab his coat, muttering about 'needing to go back to the crime scene'.

The forensic team was still there when they arrived in the little back street. Scotland yard were baffled as usual, but Mycroft had to admit that they had a point here. The three victims had no marks on their bodies. They also had not been suffocated, asphyxiated, or poisoned. Even Sherlock was at a loss. In a brief moment of curiosity he scanned the scene. Nothing. For Sherlock, that was understandable, but how could _he_, Mycroft, get _nothing_?"

Sherlock had stormed back into the thick of the investigation, ignoring Anderson's cry of protest. He snapped out his magnifying glass and started examining the hand-print one more time.

"This isn't right," he announced to anyone who was listening. He turned his head. "John, Mycroft, what do you think of these?"

Stunned at being asked for his opinion, Mycroft stepped forwards to study the wall.

"Small hands with thick and stubby fingers," said Sherlock. Should suggest a smaller build, but it is obvious from the shape of the impression that the person stumbled and leant against the wall for support. The mark is higher than it should be if the person was as small as their hands suggest. Then there's the fact that there's an impression at all. Something left a hand-print in a concrete wall. They would have to be incredibly strong, even unconsciously…"

He trailed off, and then sighed.

"Of course. John, we've got another one."

"Another…" John's eyes widened. "Jesus, how bad? Worse than the Autons?"

"Not sure yet, let's see… their body build is more solid, which suggests a high gravity planet. These things are stronger and taller than humans, with more effective weapons if those bodies are anything to go by. Slight slime deposit suggests water-based creature, while the suction pads…"

He stopped in his tracks, his face turning white.

"Shit."

And now Mycroft knew that something was seriously wrong. His little brother never swore. Most of the forensics team turned to stare as Sherlock let loose a string of expletives, pulling out his phone.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he finished, running his hands through his hair. "But how did they get here, there must be a ship… of course. Camouflage, it could be anywhere I suppose, well, the Doc did say they were a regression… what was the number…"

"Who are you calling?" asked Mycroft suspiciously.

"This is out of our hands," said Sherlock. "You lot, leave the scene exactly where it is, do not touch anything! I'm calling in some… experts. They will want to see it for themselves."

"You're calling for _help_?" gasped Lestrade and Mycroft together.

"Sorry Mycroft, but this is beyond the government. Way, _way_ beyond."

The phone bleeped, and a computer generated voice rang out.

"This is the Unified Intelligence Taskforce. Please hold the line."

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" hissed John. Sherlock met his gaze.

"Breaking rule seven."

"To speak to a member of-"

"Oh, shut up," muttered Sherlock, jamming his finger down on the 0 button.

"Hello this is UNIT how can I help?"

"Hello, now you'd be the call-girl private, right? Well, put this into your computer. Code Nine associate Sherlock Holmes calling with a possible file 4F sighting. Personnel code alpha, seven, epsilon, terms of service delta, and security rating eleven."

There was a moments silence as the girl on the other end of the phone desperately started to type, struggling to process the information.

"Security rating _eleven_?" she squeaked.

"You heard correct."

There were a few murmurs, then the girl squeaked again.

"I – I have orders to pass you to On High, s-sir," she stuttered. A few people raised their eyebrows at the 'sir'. Mycroft's jaw dropped. Sherlock smirked.

"Just pass me over."

There was a harsh click.

"Brigadier Raleigh speaking."

"Well you're no Alastair, but you'll do," sighed Sherlock.

"A car is being sent to your position."

"No need, I'll get a cab."

"But sir-"

"Oh, come on! You would have to be a fool not to realise that your supposedly 'top secret' headquarters is actually the Tower of London!"

"I understand that sir, but we must exercise discretion. You cannot just walk up. The car is on its way eta ten minutes."

"And if you spend too long channing to bloody Geneva I'll have your hide."

He hung up the phone on the stunned Brigadier, and grinned.

"Oh I've missed this."

"Sherlock," asked Mycroft shakily. "What is UNIT?"

"Unknown territory for you, brother," laughed Sherlock. "For me… well let's just say John isn't the only one with experience in playing soldiers…"

**TBC…**


	8. Chapter 8

**A little later than planned, but I hope the length makes up for it. 2 whole k! This is the longest chapter I have written for this story!**

**As usual, I don't own any of the rights, and I would love to read your thoughts on the story.**

**Also… if you want to request or prompt feel free! I have a few ideas for the next few chapters, but after that I'm running out!**

**Eight Slimy Aliens**

As promised, a car had appeared. The driver announced that he had clearance for Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, and, inexplicably, Gregory Lestrade.

Mycroft kept asking questions. John could see that the lack of information was bothering him, but Sherlock was going out of his way to be as smug and irritating as possible. Finally he cracked.

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" He cried. Just answer me! "Why do _you_ of all people have a secret organisation on speed dial?"

John coughed into his elbow in an attempt to cover up his snigger. It didn't work, and he found himself being glared at by an angry Holmes. Sherlock pursed his lips in amusement.

"And why were you requested?" Mycroft asked Greg angrily. The DI just shrugged in genuine bemusement.

When at last they arrived Mycroft had raged himself into silence, and instead expressed his annoyance by striding along stiffly, clicking his umbrella as he went. They were led past sentries and checkpoints, to the very heart of the organisation. Mycroft was gaping around in astonishment at the mass of intelligence workers, soldiers and weapons, his eyes wide as saucers.

"Where on earth..." He muttered. "When did all this spring up?"

"Back in the sixties," said Sherlock. "UNIT was set up by Sir Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stuart, to combat extra-terrestrial threats."

"I thought that was Torchwood's department," said Mycroft suspiciously.

"Them too," shrugged Sherlock. "But after all that business in Canary Warf, Torchwood was impossible to keep quiet. This place, however..."

"This is amazing," said Lestrade, as they were led through another door. "So what, Sherlock, you know these people?"

"Oh it's much more than that, Gregory," said a cheerful voice. "He used to work for us."

The four of them spun around. They were in an office, and a man in uniform was smiling at them from behind a desk.

"No way," said Lestrade in a hushed voice. "Alexander Raleigh? Alex?"

"Greg," he nodded. "How are you?"

"What - why,"

"You're here to bridge the gap, dear cousin. I have heard much about the illustrious Mr Holmes, and thought he may benefit from a few familiar faces."

"Cousin?" said Sherlock incredulously. "Lestrade, you never said you had relatives in UNIT!"

"I didn't know," mumbled Lestrade. The young brigadier turned to Sherlock.

"You must be Sergeant Holmes."

"Yes sir," said Sherlock, and to everyone's surprise, he saluted sharply, and stood to attention.

"At ease," said Raleigh, eyes twinkling. "That will be a story for the mess tonight, THE Sherlock Holmes saluting little me. You're something of a myth amongst the men, you know. You never came back. Miss Grant, Dr Sullivan, Miss Smith... even that ACE girl popped back up on our radar eventually, but you, Mr Holmes, simply vanished."

"I did not belong in that time," said Sherlock uncomfortably. "The longer I stayed, the more danger there was of me accidentally crossing my own timeline, and that could have blown a hole in the continuum. I came close as it was."

"How close?" challenged the soldier. Sherlock considered for a moment.

"Close enough for me to run into my heavily pregnant mother, annoy my seven year old older brother, expose my father's adulterous tendencies, and then manage to get myself a promise that I would be named after me. It was a pretty wild day, and Benton wasn't even present…"

"Ah yes, dear Sergeant Benton," said Raleigh, sitting down and twiddling his thumbs. "How is he, still selling those cars?"

"Actually he retired a while ago. I last saw him at Sarah's funeral."

"I heard the two of you could dance one hell of a tango. There are still marks on the desktops."

John laughed as Sherlock's face flushed tomato red.

"Moving beyond my seventies dance moves… do you think we could focus on the matter in hand? Such as the reappearance of the Zygons?"

"Of course," he pulled a large map from his desk drawer. "Let's get down to business."

XXX

It took Sherlock a matter of minutes to deduce where any of the other alien space crafts would have landed, and for the Brigadier to dispatch some search parties. It took even less time for Mycroft's world to turn completely upside down.

"Mycroft Holmes," he had said pompously to the young soldiers nearby. He pulled out his many identification cards that normally left people white-faced, stuttering, and ready to follow whatever orders he gave them. The men, however, simply laughed.

"Is that supposed to impress us?" sniggered the youngest, a boy of little more than eighteen. "Didn't you listen to your little brother, Mr Holmes? This place is way beyond the government. You have no authority here."

"When did _Sherlock _get his authority?" asked Mycroft sulkily.

The young recruit beckoned for him to follow, and he led him to a corridor not far from the brigadier's office.

"This is our wall of honour," he announced. "That's your brother there, this is the last photograph taken of him before he vanished."

He pointed to a large photograph showing a group of five men.

"Now that one on the left," said the boy eagerly. "That's Captain Yates, and next to him is Sergeant Benton. Yates actually left before this was taken, but something came up… I forget the details. Benton left not long after Sergeant Holmes; he said that fighting aliens wasn't much fun without his best friend."

"His best friend?" asked Mycroft, dazed. He thought that John was Sherlock's first friend. How had he not known about this man? Sherlock was right in the middle of the group, his arms around Benton and the man on the other side of him.

"Who's that?"

"That was Brigadier Lethbridge-Stuart, but he's dead now, and that person trying to sneak out of the photograph is The Doctor."

"The Doctor? Doctor who?"

"Yeah, that's him," said the soldier vaguely. "So there you go."

Mycroft focused back on Sherlock's face in the picture. He was laughing, and looked happy. Happier than Mycroft had ever seen him. He looked over the rest of the wall. His brother was in more pictures, he appeared to have had a military career that spanned at least three years, but when was this?

Then he noticed the date underneath the last picture.

1975.

That was impossible, Sherlock wasn't even born until…

He gulped. After this was over, Sherlock had some explaining to do.

XXX

There were eight of them in total. This was not good. In fact, Sherlock would go as far as to take a leaf out of John's book, and say that it was very not good. He ducked behind a wheelie bin, peering at the orange, slimy, suckery thing that was wobbling down the alleyway. It made his stomach turn just to look at him, and the smell… he gagged, and pulled his red beret off his head and used it to cover his mouth. As the alien passed he slipped it back over his hair, adjusting it so it was in the right position. He was very proud of his new red and black UNIT uniform, even if he had preferred the green.

He darted out of his hiding place, gun at the ready as he followed the Zygons. These aliens seemed to be hopelessly unprepared, and there was no sign of a plan. They were just wandering around randomly killing people. To be fair, they were armed with laser guns, but that was hardly enough to ensure them world domination. It was slightly worrying.

"Stop," said a raspy voice behind him. "Surrender, human."

Sherlock froze in horror. These creatures were travelling in pairs. _Stupid,_ he chastised himself. _Should have known._ He turned around slowly, but didn't let go of his gun.

"Surrender," said the voice again, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose as the slobbery mouth moved. The alien fired a warning shot, but managed to bring down some power cables. Sherlock darted into a side alley and started running.

"Sergeant Holmes to base, Sergeant Holmes to base!" he called into his coms device. "Being chased by invader in the Brixton area, immediate back-up required-"

He burst out onto a main road and skidded to a stop as he found himself in the middle of a crime scene. He groaned as he recognised the faces staring at him, then sighed heavily as Anderson and Donovan began to laugh. He turned his back on them.

"Sergeant Holmes to base, back up now required urgently, invader will soon impact upon civilians."

"Hey Freak! Playing soldiers?"

With a roar the Zygon shot out of the alleyway, roaring. The police screamed, and began cowering behind their vehicles. Taking careful aim, Sherlock shot its hand, and the laser went catapulting across the road to be caught by an ashen Anderson. Sherlock ran over to the alien, and placed a foot on its shoulder, jarring the injured hand. The Zygon cried out, but Sherlock ignored it.

"Numbers," he said coldly, pointing his gun at where he knew the alien's brain to be.

"You will never make me…"

"Oh, skip the theatrics," he sighed. "How many of you are there."

"No."

"Oh for God's sake…" he shot the ground, narrowly missing one of the suckers on the Zygon's head. "You won't get any mercy from me, that's The Doctor's job. Trawl back into that race memory of yours and look me up."

The eyes of the alien flickered blank for a moment, then widened with horror.

"Sherlock Holmes…"

"That's me; now tell me your numbers!"

"Eight…" it whispered. "No more."

There was a roar of engines as one of the UNIT jeeps skidded around the corner, Lestrade at the wheel.

"Nice work, Sherlock!" he called as he leapt out of the driver's seat. "That's seven of them we've caught so far!"

"Sergeant!" called a younger man, as more soldiers restrained the Zygon. He saluted to Sherlock. "We have contained seven of them in a nearby facility."

"There's one more out there, it's somewhere close by, I saw it."

Sherlock strode across the street and plucked the laser out of Anderson's unprotesting hands.

"Hmm, they've updated the technology a bit," he mused. "I wonder if they've still got a stun setting… ah, there it is."

He flicked a clunky switch and the device began to whirr. He whirled around to Lestrade, who cowered in front of the gun.

"Lestrade," said Sherlock, clicking his heels together. "I'm going to take a recce and try and find the last Zygon. You may want to see to your staff, they might need assistance to recover their faculties."

Lestrade stared after the younger man as he disappeared into a backstreet.

"Sir?" asked Sally Donovan behind him. "What… why…"

"Don't ask, Donovan," he muttered. "Really don't ask."

XXX

The next night, Sherlock and John staggered down Baker Street in an exhausted stupor. They laughed as they fumbled with the key in the lock, and struggled up the stairs. Mrs Hudson came rushing out to them.

"Oh, boys!" she cried. "I've been so worried, I heard about those alien things on the news, and then you didn't come home, and…" she stopped to observe them properly. "What _happened _you?"

They looked down on themselves, in torn and battered clothing. Sherlock was still wearing his UNIT uniform.

"Have you been in the wars?" she asked in bewilderment.

That was the last straw. The pair almost collapsed with laughter. They stopped abruptly as Mycroft Holmes stormed in.

"Right, _Sergeant Holmes_," he sneered. "You have some serious explaining to do."

John couldn't help smiling as the story came out. He had heard it many times before, but the facial expression of the listener was always the funniest thing in the universe.


	9. Chapter 9

**The second two shot, though this is more of a prelude to the next chapter which I am VERY EXCITED about!**

**Nine O'Clock Train…**

Sherlock checked his watch anxiously as nine o'clock drew near. He wandered around the platform, scuffing his shoes. Lestrade watched him anxiously. Sherlock looked close to losing it.

"This was a bad idea," the detective was muttering. "I should have gone myself, picked her up, what if she gets lost…"

"Sherlock, calm down!" sighed Lestrade. "Look, here the train comes now."

The train pulled up at the platform, and the doors hissed open. For a moment the station was swamped with people, as they swarmed towards the barriers.

"Daddy!"

Sherlock's eyes widened as Sky called down the platform. She ran towards them, thrust her small suitcase into Lestrade's arms, and flung herself into Sherlock's chest. Lestrade could almost hear violins in the background of the classic reunion scene. A sweet little girl in a quaint boarding school uniform, being reunited with her… legal guardian and adopted father figure? Okay, so that bit didn't quite fit, but the rest of it…

They drew apart, and Sherlock appeared to be literally in shock. Lestrade would have taken a picture if his hands hadn't been full of suitcase. He followed the pair into the dark city.

"Where's John?" asked Sky. Sherlock swung around, frowning.

"Actually where _is_ John?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Visiting his sister, remember?"

"Oh, yes. Come along, Sky."

The three of them got a cab to Baker Street.

"How was school, Sky?" asked Lestrade. She shrugged.

"So-so. I didn't learn much, but they let me use their lab for my experiments."

She grinned, flashing her pearly teeth in a disturbing manner.

When they reached the flat, Lestrade hung around. He should really be getting home but he promised John he would keep an eye on Sherlock.

After a while, Sherlock emerged from his room looking more casual than Lestrade had ever seen him before. He had a wet patch on the front of his shirt.

"Er, what…"

"What?" he glanced down. "Oh, Sky was crying. She does that sometimes, not so sure why…"

"She lost her mother, Sherlock!"

"I know but it's been a while now. But yes, she cried so I… cuddled her, I think it's called. Anyway got a wet shirt as a result. Whoop-de-doo."

He flopped down onto the sofa. All of a sudden there was a roar overhead, and Big Ben chimed the ten o'clock news. Both Lestrade and Sherlock leapt to their feet, and watched the burning mass of metal falling from the sky.

"Space ship at ten o'clock," commented Sherlock lightly. His phone buzzed, and he answered it.

"Hello Brigadier Raleigh," he said smoothly. "Of course, how can I refuse?"


End file.
